


No More Lies

by bluebell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Gore, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebell/pseuds/bluebell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Moriarty will speak no more lies.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mini fill written for this prompt on the kink meme: _Sherlock manages to grab "Richard Brook" before he can escape Kitty's apartment. Do what you want with that - but watch the scene again first. Look at that murderous rage in Sherlock's eyes. He wants to beat the shit out of him. Do with that what you will._
> 
> When I wrote the first chapter of this I never intended for there to be any more, but found myself inspired. Unbeta'd, concrit welcome.

When Sherlock comes back to himself he is panting hard - gasping for breath in fact - and is sitting on the floor at the foot of the short flight of stairs in Kitty Riley's flat. He is breathing hard and his hands are shaking. They hurt.

Sherlock looks down at them. His knuckles are bruised and swollen and he is covered - his thumbs especially - in blood. He can hear raised voices in the hallway. He tunes them out.

There are small spatters of blood on the stairs from Sherlock's hands and from where Sherlock punched John in the face to keep him away. There is a smear of a bloody handprint on the wallpaper - John's from where he stumbled on his way down the stairs after finally pulling Sherlock away.

At the top of the stairs Sherlock knows there will be a larger pool of blood where Moriarty's body lies, but he doesn't look.

He doesn't look because Sherlock knows what he will see. Moriarty's face is finally as ugly on the outside as it was within. Mouth twisted and torn. Nose broken. Eyes a blank and empty mass of gore.

He'll speak no more lies.

Sherlock wonders where John is now and tries not to remember the way John had looked at him. The horrified look on his face as he had taken Moriarty's pulse and found none. John isn't in the room now and Sherlock doesn't think he'll be coming back. John will be realising that everything people have told him about Sherlock is true. He'll be out there somewhere calling for a rather pointless ambulance, then he'll call Lestrade and tell him what happened. He wont be coming back. John isn't the sort of man who would be friends with a murderer.

The room is empty and silent now. A silence that screams inside Sherlock's head with John's loss.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He should leave. He should get out of here right now. Then he won't have to see John look at him like the murderer he is._

Sherlock tries to get to his feet but his knees are unaccountably shaky, his legs refusing to hold him. He sinks back to the floor, staring down at his bloody hands. He is dimly aware that this is shock. He's going into shock. His hands are shaking, his heart is racing. Sherlock closes his eyes in an attempt to calm himself down but finds that all he sees when he closes his eyes is Moriarty's smiling face, taunting him. He opens his eyes again, taking in deep gasping breaths.

This can't be happening.

It's an idiotic thought given the evidence right behind him at the top of the stairs lying broken and bloody and- 

No. No more of that. 

Sherlock finds he can't escape the thought that this shouldn't be happening. Moriarty is dead and he's still winning. Sherlock will lose. Has lost. He'll be arrested and charged with murder and never prove his innocence - not now he literally has blood on his hands - but more importantly he'll lose John. Moriarty has burnt the heart out of him and only cold grey ashes are left.

He should leave. He should get out of here right now. Then he won't have to see John look at him like the murderer he is. Like he's nothing but a freak and psychopath.

Someone who could never be a friend of John Watson.

Sherlock's mind flashes ahead to the trial he'll inevitably face. How John will have to give evidence against him. How Sherlock will have to hear John describe what he did to Moriarty.

How will John speak? Will he say that they used to be friends? Or maybe he will tell them how people warned him about Sherlock and he wishes he had listened. Wishes they had never been friends.

No. Ridiculous. He'll describe what Sherlock did. How he attacked Moriarty- No, Richard Brook. They'll all call him Richard Brook. John will describe how Sherlock killed poor innocent Richard Brook. How he punched and tore and finally gouged out Richard's eyes with his thumbs.

"Oh, God," Sherlock says, his voice sounding hoarse and cracked.

He looks up as the door opens, expecting to see the police but it's John. Sherlock closes his eyes, his hands over his face. He can't look, can't bear to see the look in John's eyes. He jumps when a hand touches his shoulder and freezes, not knowing what to do, what to think.

John pulls at him and Sherlock presses his hands even tighter over his eyes, so tight that it hurts, so tight that he sees white lights dancing in front of his closed eye lids.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, please," John says, desperation in his voice, still tugging at Sherlock's hands.

"John," Sherlock says, hardly able to get the sound out, hardly able to breathe past a chest that is full of ashes.

"We have to go, Sherlock. Come on, get up, we have to go."

Sherlock finds he can breathe again, taking in great gasping breaths in relief.  
He allows John to pull his hands away from his face but he stares at John's feet, at his sensible shoes and the hem of his jeans. If John wants him to go with him he will. He'll follow John as long as he's able.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock needs to pull himself together, why can't he do that?_

"We have to go, Sherlock. Now."

John pulls Sherlock up and out of the room. The room where Moriarty's body still lies. John guides him out of the house, down the street, round a corner, walking and walking, all the time with his arm around Sherlock's waist. Pulling him along, guiding him, as if John thinks that Sherlock can't walk for himself. He almost can't. Sherlock stumbles more than once, his legs shaky and his knees weak.

Right now the warmth of John's arm around his waist is his anchor, keeping him grounded in the here and now, in putting one foot in front of the other. Sherlock knows he can keep going as long as he can feel that warmth, that support.

It isn't until they turn into a darkened alley way that John lets him go. The nearest street light is smashed out and only the dim light from passing cars illuminates the skip full of rubbish and the graffiti on the rough brick walls. Sherlock hadn't realised until John let him go just how much he had needed that support, had needed that guidance. He leans heavily against the wall, grabbing for support that isn't there as his knees give way and he slumps to the dirty ground.

Sherlock closes his eyes to try and calm himself, to try and gather what little is left of his wits. He needs to pull himself together, why can't he do that? He needs to be cold and emotionless. He needs to be the machine that John once accused him of being. Why can't he do that?

Why can't he do that?

Moriarty's face swims to the forefront of his mind, grinning madly like the bogey man or the villain in a fairy tale. He shouldn't have lied. Sherlock wouldn't have done it if not for the lie. Wouldn't have been so angry. Wouldn't have been driven to-

Sherlock's eyes fly open, telling himself not to think about it. But he can't help it. Moriarty is dead and he still, literally, has blood on his hands. He can feel it. Sticky and drying and under his finger nails. Jim Moriarty's life blood stuck under his nails.

Before he quite realises it is going to happen, Sherlock is vomiting. Hot and bitter and painful, his stomach heaving again and again until he is dry heaving, his cheeks wet and his nose running.

What a sight he must look. On his knees in dirty alley that stinks of piss and rot, crying and shaking. He needs to get control of himself.

Why can't he do that?


End file.
